


Beta Love

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sense of longing came over her—a tactile hunger, the desire to curl into human warmth and stay there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beta Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/gifts).



> I wrote something with smut! Been a while. Bit rusty at it, but hopefully you won't mind me getting back into the swing of it. Yay sexytimes! Unbetaed (ha!) because lazy writer. 
> 
> For [Lono](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/pseuds/Lono) because we can all agree she rocks, and if we can't, then you are wrong. Title comes from a pretty rad little tune of the same name with a nice strings element. I love [the RAC remix version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDIURd86fq4).

She braced them against the wall above the bed frame, panting hard as he moved in her. She bit her lip to suppress the building, screaming joy of being shagged beyond all coherent thought by Sherlock Holmes. Walls didn’t talk, but bugged flats surely did. Always a possibility.

He grasped at her hair, tugging at the roots, nails edging brightly along her scalp. The sting was delicious. Arm thrown back against his neck, she flexed her own fingers in his perfect, awful curls, letting him know just how much she liked it. His hips bucked against her in response, teeth digging into her shoulder.

Her breath caught as his fingers slipped under the hem of the oversized t-shirt she wore and found the exact right pressure on her clit and the perfect, perfect rhythm, the most precise and elusive and blissful combination—oh, Christ, oh, the _clever_ man. She moved with him, with momentum gathering, close, closer, until, oh, fuck, she felt like her body was just singing out as she came. The feeling stretched out, gently intensifying as his whole body went taut as a wire. His grip on her hair tensed. He swore into her neck, teeth scraping up against her ear, his hips shuddering as he groaned in release.

Her lips formed an open _O_ of delight as she exhaled an overwhelmed, wordless sound of satisfaction and relief. She tipped her head back and to the side, resting on his shoulder as she waited for her breathing to return to normal, her racing heart to slow.

She smoothed her hands along the wall. He nuzzled the nape of her neck affectionately before collapsing dramatically against the bed. “You,” Sherlock said, still finding his breath, “might be the death of me.”

Molly leaned against the headboard a moment before standing on slightly shaky legs. She looked over her shoulder.

In the early morning glow, with his arm cast behind his head, he looked wildly beautiful, as if made from stone. All light loved him, Molly thought, and the shadows too.

“Already have been,” she replied, and paced through the door.

In the washroom she splashed a handful of water on her face. Ran a cloth between her thighs. Smoothed her wild bed hair. A sense of longing came over her—a tactile hunger, the desire to curl into human warmth and stay there. She drew a deep and calming breath.

In the kitchen she poured herself a mug of water and, checking it for cleanliness and questionable contents, drank deeply. She cracked her neck, leaning heavily against the sink. She crossed a leg, one over the other, below the longish nightshift-y t-shirt, considering her toes. Her eyes flicked over to the sitting room and beyond, where the cool blue light of a London morning slipped in. Another day. She wondered what she could expect of this one. What not.

From the bedroom, the creak of springs.

Molly came out of her reverie as Sherlock emerged, all blue silk pyjama bottoms and tousled hair. She swallowed her inclination to reach out for him. To trace all his beautiful alluring lines, to kiss his ragged, starbursting scars. He met her look with that inscrutable, hyper-beautiful, ultramarine gaze. How were anyone’s eyes that actual color? His collection of cliches belonged in a bad novel, she thought. The beautiful genius. The lonely lover. Except, of course, someone so strange, someone so extraordinary as him, no, they could only be real. He was far too unbelievable for fiction.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

She pressed the cool glass against her neck. “Nowhere. Just thinking. You know.”

“Yes.” He leaned back against the table opposite her, feet splayed out. He studied her openly. He hid nothing of his own curiosity, drinking her in as if she were part of a crime. As if she had committed one. "You keep leaving, after,” he said, puzzled. “Why?"

She shrugged, taking a sip of her water. “Not a slight. I just know you like your space."

He squinted, pressing his lips together. His fingers tapped against the formica tabletop. "You think I mind being close to you?" He gave her a look of reproach. "Evidence to the contrary, Dr. Hooper."

She curled the mug against her collarbone, sliding her thumb against the sharp edge of the counter at her back. "This is new. Didn't want to overwhelm," she replied. She was unapologetic of her actions. She knew him–and herself–well enough.

"Ah, but you're always overwhelming me, Molly Hooper."

Eyes bright, unflinching, Sherlock held out a hand. She handed him the mug. He took it from her, giving her a look that was part amusement, part annoyance, and set it behind him on the tabletop. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them so he was leaning above her, against her, their feet touching, legs tangled, his bare chest to hers. His hands snuck around her waist. "You overwhelm me with your mind, your kindness, your heart, body parts...Not to mention your own beautiful self."

She winced a small self-conscious laugh. "Terrible."

"Mmm. Your sense of humor may be rubbing off on me. ”

“Is it? Tough news there. Poor John.”

“That, among other things. More than three times this week I’ve found myself with no good reason to be at the lab, and have ended up there anyway. I hover. I’m drawn to your orbit, Molly Hooper, and I may never escape your charmed and powerful gravity,” he said, oddly playful.

“I know _that_ feeling.”

“I know.”

She made a face. The indignity of infatuation. “Bit of an idiot, wasn't I?”

He pushed her hair behind her ear. “I think we can agree that for as long as we have known one another, only one of us has ever been the idiot.”

“Perhaps,” she said. The corner of her mouth ticked up. 

“Yes. Don’t let it get out; I’ve an international reputation, you know.”

“Do you?” She raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. “What for?”

“Oh, this and that.” He kissed her. “Irritating people, mostly.”

“Sounds about right.” She smiled, but held herself apart from him.

He swayed them off balance, drawing her in. “I plan to irritate you for a very long time. As long as you’ll allow me, in fact.”

In the secret language of Sherlock Holmes, subtext was king. She looked up in wonder. “Do you really?”

“When I said you were responsible for altering my perspective, I did not mean temporarily.” As if just registering what he'd said, he quickly added, “And yes, I _do_ realize the hypocrisy of this from a man who, until fairly recently, spent the entirety of his adult life avoiding romantic entanglements. Not lost on me. But please do not feel the need to hide.” He traced the line of her jaw, tipping her chin up, asking her eyes to meet his. “Besides, I am very good at finding the things people want to keep hidden.”

He was. Found that heart, hadn’t he? As she looked in to his perfect face and those unbelievable eyes, something–some last, tiny piece of self-preservation, some final stronghold in the heart she’d surrendered so very long ago–gave way.

Sherlock touched his face to hers. “What do you need, Molly Hooper?”

Molly laid her forehead against his jaw. Her eyes fluttered closed.

“This,” she said.

She held on, she let go.

“Just this.”

* * *

_Endless hope, I believe_  
 _You can’t tell me no, it’s no dream_  
 _In this city of robot hearts ours were made to beat._  
\- Ra Ra Riot, Beta Love


End file.
